


Ace of hearts

by parsleylion



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Angst, M/M, Multi, Rape, general abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12302625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsleylion/pseuds/parsleylion
Summary: Brad wins Mike's body...





	Ace of hearts

**Author's Note:**

> for red who asked for gangbang mike fic.  
> inspired by photo. http://i30.tinypic.com/2yz0b2v.png  
> bruised neck ftw.

You don't see the bruise until after the show. That's the show that took place after the meet and greet. The meet and greet that took place after Chester had his hands around your neck.

  
  


Brad sees it too. He grabs you by the wrist, fingers digging into your skin as you try and carry on walking. You just want to get to the tour bus; to your bunk. They can't hurt you there. Not with Phoenix and Joe and Mark around you.

  
  


"You should be careful Mike," Brad hisses, "Use more foundation."

  
  


You shiver and he's gone.

  
  
  


+

  
  
  


The ride to the next venue is about all the comfort you take from the day. You lay in your bunk, hand resting across your stomach, soothing the burning sensation of bruised and burnt skin. How you played the show is anyone's wild guess. Even Phoenix noticed you wheezing your way through  _Faint_  and you couldn't even keep up your usual everything-is-o-fucking-kay pretence and shake hands with the crowd at the end.

  
  


The bus goes over a bumpy patch of road and you wince. The shirt you've been wearing sticks to your skin. You know the scab that's forming will rip when you try and take it off. Someone walks by and you shudder, suddenly clamp your mouth shut because you're that scared they'll be able to hear you fucking breathing.

  
  


No one opens the curtain though and the footsteps fade away. A few minutes later you hear the sound of the TV blasting out. Then you hear Chester and Brad and later on Rob and Phoenix and Joe; all laughing together.

  
  


And you're so past caring that you don't even cry yourself to sleep anymore.

  
  
  


+

  
  
  


You've told yourself you have to finish this tour. You can't let the fans down. That's what you remind yourself as you apply your new Maybelline Mousse foundation which Brad dropped into your lap after he'd fucked you raw in dressing room earlier on. Chester, he stood at the door watching and Rob, he stood outside in the corridor on lookout.

  
  


You're not sure this is the right shade as your fingers calmly smooth the beige mousse over the bruises on your cheeks. Your hands used to shake badly. Now they've stopped. Gotten used to it, you guess, as you gaze in the mirror with a frown. Not much longer, you tell yourself, brushing a hand through your hair.

  
  


+

  
  


Brad laughs. Chester tells another joke and Rob laughs too. The hotel bed feels warm beneath your naked body and you close your eyes. You're so stoned that it doesn't feel so bad tonight. Here. In the hotel suite. Eighteen floors up in the middle of New York. Brad laughs again and slaps your ass.

  
  


"And this one is punishment for making us perform with Jay _fucking_ Z."

  
  


You're not too stoned to notice the malice in his voice. You're not too stoned to feel the skin between your thighs cracking and breaking as he thrusts himself inside you. You wriggle and squirm. Even though you're redundant these days. Even though you know it'll do no good.

  
  


You've not  _quite_  lost your defence mechanisms. No, they're just hanging by a thread. A thread that's barely visible.

  
  


Chester holds down your arms; Rob your legs. Your head sways from side to side. Brad's tongue traces all the way down your spine and you shiver.

  
  


You hate yourself for spilling your sticky, dirty seed all over the sheets.

  
  


+

  
  
  


Four black coffees and seven cigarettes. Late, late breakfast somewhere in Montreal. Phoenix sits beside you picking at a croissant; sipping on orange juice. He talks at speed about his wife and daughter and you nod here and there; dark voile drawing down over your eyes. Suddenly you're not there. You're in a room and Brad, Rob and Chester; they're all staring at you without malicious smiles. They tell you to come and sit down. They invite you to join them in the game of poker that's just started.

  
  


Why are you so hell-bent on being friends with them all over again?

  
  


"Mike?"

  
  


Sun batters your eyes as you open them. Phoenix has finished his food; is placing down an empty glass. You glance at the ashtray in front of you and count out twenty butts.

  
  


Eleven shows to go.

  
  
  


+

  
  
  


They drag you into a room at the venue. It's cold and dark until someone flicks on the lights. It looks like a store cupboard but as Brad shoves you against the wall, you remember you're not here to think about interiors.

  
  


Brad, he hates it when you don't kiss him back and Rob, well he likes to hit you if you don't kiss Brad back. So your tongue slides against his as he trails his hand down the waistband of your jeans and pushes his clammy fingers against your stomach. Any other time and you'd love this. That's what you always think. That's what you tell yourself as Brad's hand slips into your pants and starts to massage you.

  
  


Brad hates it when you don't get hard and Chester, well, he likes to cut you if you don't get it up. That's why there are jagged scars and scabs lining your upper arms. That's why Chester carries a switchblade with him everywhere he goes.

  
  


Brad pulls away and tells you to undress. It's three against one. Three plus a switchblade. The ugly scar on your right elbow and the never-fading bruises to your ribs, they remind you that fighting is overrated.

  
  


Plus you keep thinking this has to end sometime soon. Hopefully before the tour so that you don't have to go through your plan. But you made a promise to yourself. And honestly, you can't keep this up much longer.

  
  


You keep hoping though. You'd do anything to make them like you again.

  
  
  


+

  
  
  


There's a thread on the message board about the USA arena tour. You read through it because you can't sleep. Excited posts by elated fans sing the bands praises. You scroll down the page, wonder what they'd think if they knew the real band. Chester. Rob. Brad. That fucking game of poker you played at Projekt Revolution 2007. That stupid, drunken bet and that stupid, drunken naivety.

  
  


You never thought they'd actually go through with it. Not really. You thought it was one big joke. Chester with the loving wife and family; Brad, the father to be; Rob the one friend who had  _always_  been there for you when times got rough.

  
  


Or so you'd thought.

  
  


You click onto the next page, eyes tired from staring at the laptop screen. It's four am and you're sitting in the hotel bar. The one that you love for never closing because it's the only place you can hide. They can't hurt you here.

  
  


Another page, another barrage of love via emoticons. There was a time when the words  _Oh my God! Chester's sweaty body was right in my face in the pit! I licked his belly button..._  would have made you roll on the floor with tears of laughter streaming down your face. Then, maybe at the start of the year, it would have made you angry. Because don't these people deserve to know what a fucking monster he is?

  
  


But now? Now it just makes you close your eyes as your breath hitches and a lump forms in the back of your throat.

  
  


You shut down your computer and sit in silence.

  
  
  


+

  
  


It was a stupid thing to do, getting involved in poker with Rob, Brad and Chester. You'd played once before. Lost spectacularly. So why you drew a chair up and let Brad deal you a hand of cards is the biggest mystery of your entire lifetime. You were drunk. And it was the penultimate show of Projekt Revolution. The starry night was cascading itself through the window of the luxurious penthouse suite in some hotel in Colorado.

  
  


You don't remember much. Just Rob laughing and Chester teasing you. And losing. Losing and insisting on playing again. There's one point where you're leaning across the table; Rob and Chester both out and sitting patiently and there's a pile of money between you and Brad. Money and Brad's car keys. You pat your pockets down but there's nothing left.

  
  


Then Brad, he smirks and eyes up Rob and Chester and then he looks at you.

  
  


"If you raise me your body, I'll raise you my condo."

  
  


+

  
  


You watch the venue disappear behind you. Beside you sits Phoenix; in front of you sit Mark and Joe. The only people you feel you can trust anymore. That word, though,  _trust_ , it leaves a bitter taste in the back of your throat. You always thought you could trust Rob and Brad and especially Chester.

  
  


That's reason number one you won't tell them.

  
  


Reason number two, well it makes complete sense in your mind. The band? They can go on without you. But without Brad? Without Rob? Without  _Chester_? It just wouldn't happen. If  _you_  leave, you don't leave them in pieces.

  
  


It's logical.

  
  


"So, are you looking forward to our time off?" Phoenix asks, "Man, I've loved this tour but I seriously need to stay in one place for more than twelve hours or my head is not going to stop spinning."

  
  


Reason number three is their happiness.

  
  


You can't do this to them. You can't shatter their illusions of Rob. Or Brad. Or Chester. You hate that ever since this started, just thinking of their names makes you want to be violently sick.

  
  


"I guess," You shrug and Phoenix, he doesn't question your cold attitude.

  
  


"Well, y'know, I'll probably be bitching about it after being home for a week. Roll on Europe though? I can't believe we're finally getting Projekt Revolution out there man! Can you remember when it started? That fucking tour we did, 'Countdown to Revolution', and we all got sick like, twenty times and..."

  
  


Reason four is that you're a coward.

  
  


And cowards?

  
  


They always take the easy way out.

  
  
  


+

  
  
  


The first time it happened you had to shower five times just to feel clean again. It was a sticky hot week at the end of September and they came over, unannounced. It was okay. It's not like you were doing anything. Just sitting on your couch with your dogs, watching daytime TV.

  
  


You'd forgotten about the bet. Or, the joke, as you'd thought it was back then.

  
  


If a switch had ever been pulled on someone's attitudes toward you then it happened just about the moment that Rob walked over to you, grabbed you by the wrists and pulled you to your feet.

  
  


"Hey Rob, nice to see you too..."

  
  


"Get upstairs."

  
  


That's all you remember.

  
  


Oh, and Brad saying "You raised me your body, remember? Well, us three got talking the other day. Came up with the terms and conditions."

  
  


You couldn't move for hours after they'd gone.

  
  
  


+

  
  
  


Your hands burn as they graze against the floor. Partly because Chester is fucking you so hard it's the only way you can steady yourself. Partly because you're scraping them against the harsh surface, wanting to feel the blood pour from your palms; wanting to feel the sting because anything is better than feeling Chester raping you.

  
  


Though is it rape when you've given in? Is it really rape when you're not fighting back?

  
  


Brad's hands rest heavy on your shoulders, steadying you as he fucks your mouth. Their low, guttural moans left your ears long ago, replaced with your silent, empty pleads.

  
  


_Kill me. Just fucking kill me._

  
  


But they're cowards.

  
  


They'd never kill you.

  
  


That's something you've got to do yourself.

  
  
  


+

  
  
  


You stare at the clock. It's almost midnight. You never were one for goodbyes. None of that emotional shit. Beside, if you said goodbye they'd only deem it odd. And what's the point in a suicide note? That'll just hurt them even more.

  
  


Even more than you already have?

  
  


You don't know because you're drunk from expensive champagne and everyone is outside littering the corridors of the venue, embarking on the end of tour party.

  
  


You step up onto the chair, wobbling a little as a wave of dizziness washes over you. It feels strange being high up, looking down on the small dressing room. And as you gaze around the room, you realise that this is it. Your final moments playing out to you. Outside someone is singing and laughter erupts over the music. Below you a puzzle of clothes and books and CDs and food scatter out on the floor.

  
  


"Stop crying," You whisper to yourself, "Stop crying."

  
  


If you step back down, it'll only get worse. It'll be waking every morning wheezing and going to bed at night with blood trickling down your wrists. It'll be watching three guys who you love and adore so much, rip your adulation for them to pieces and throw it back in your face; cutting you with words and touches and thrusts and gashes. It'll be you lying to yourself; to your friends; to the world.

  
  


And the thing is, you're the world's lousiest liar.

  
  


You glance up to the ceiling, think about those words you wrote. You're sitting on the red couch in the Houdini mansion and Chester is lying next to you with his head in your lap. He's looking up at you with a frown as you read the lyrics.

  
  


"Find a new place to hang this noose, string me up from atop these roofs, knot it tight so I won't get loose..."

  
  


And he's smiling and reaching up to brush his fingers against your chin, and tilting your head until you're finally looking at him.

  
  


You never  _did_  get to hear what he was about to say because Ethan chose that wholly inappropriate moment to walk in.

  
  


Is it worth stepping down, just in case he one day tells you?

  
  


You look down. Spot your bag of dirty laundry.

  
  


The blood stained clothes?

  
  


They tell you no.

  
  


With a laboured sigh, you reach up and grab the rope. It's knotted tight. It won't get  _fucking_  loose. You hook it around your neck, kick the chair away with your feet.

  
  


"Mike are you...?"

  
  


Chester's wide eyes are the last thing you see. Chester's wide eyes and the sheer panic as he rushes over to you. Chester's wide eyes and the tears that cascade like rain down his cheeks.

  
  
  


**FIN.**


End file.
